Chapter Twelve
Therapy
-.-
"You've not been eating." The hypnotist, who introduces himself as Dr Fisher, remarks.
"No." Sherlock responds sourly. He doesn't like these questions. He wants to begin the treatment as soon as possible. "But you clearly have been. You ate three heavily buttered pieces of toast this morning, a boiled egg and a bowl of fruit."
Mycroft's acquaintance doesn't seem the least bit surprised or unperturbed. He is a composed and soft spoken man, in his middle fifties, hair greying, with a pair of glasses propped up on his large nose. "Mr Holmes. We are here to discuss your needs rather than mine. Now, I would like you to lie down, over there."
"About time." He grumbles. For the past half hour, he has been responding to irrelevant matters. Flunking onto the waiting sofa heavily, he stares up at Dr Fisher, watching coldly as the practitioner holds a pendulum in front of him. "Oh, come on!" He snorts. "You expect that to work on me?"
"Mr Holmes, I am the best in the country." Dr Fisher states matter-of-factly. "Now. You are the first patient I have come across who can mentally 'delete' memories. That is not to say I cannot help. The only problem we have is time. We may recover all of your memories today, or in ten years. I hold no responsibility for whatever these recollections may contain. Do I make myself clear?"
"Quite."
"Alright. I want you to look deep in my eyes now." Sighing loudly, skeptical, Sherlock obeys. Then he feels an unpleasant tingling sensation. Dr Fisher's eyes lock on his, dark and unblinking. "You are feeling sleepy…"
Sherlock doesn't hear the rest of what he says, because a blanket of tiredness washes over him. I haven't slept in days. He thinks. That man is speaking again, the words indistinguishable. Just a little rest… His eyes start to close. They feel so heavy… But my therapy… I need to find out… Who is he…? Who is John Wat – Wat – Watson…?
And then everything goes black.
-.-
For a moment, he lies in the darkness, unsure what to expect. Dull. Is his first thought. Then the black fades into colour and he can see his parents, bending over him, his mother cooing at him. "What a pretty boy you are."
"Mother?" She doesn't hear him.
An eight year old bounds up. "Is that him? My new brother?"
"Mycroft!" He has never seen Mycroft look so young. His older sibling looks down at him fondly, with approval, and clutches his hand. Looking at it, Sherlock sees that his own is soft and small and chubby. I'm a baby!
The vision changes. He is standing in the school hall, at the very front, on his own, playing his violin to the hundreds of listening children. He can feel those nerves even now. My first recital. The last note hangs and then the room breaks into applause and he is bowing proudly, blushing profoundly, the heat burning off his cheeks. And even his father, right at the front row, is standing up and beaming at him. Father…
A new place. A different time. Sherlock stands, bent over a microscope. Trapped in his own body, he thinks fast. I'm at St Bart's. Something about the room makes him shiver inwardly.
"Green ladder!"He hears himself cry, slamming the table suddenly, disrupting his observation. Ah, this is the case of the brother with the ladder. Elementary, really. But why would I want to remember this –?
The door opens and he looks up sharply. Mike Stamford, an acquaintance of his, enters, followed by… Sherlock wants to scream. He can hear himself speaking. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." But the man behind him is…
John Watson. "John! Dr Watson!" He's shouting out, but no one listens.
"What's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text."
He doesn't remember any of this. Intrigued, he falls silent and listens. He is surprised when Dr Watson himself speaks up. "Here… Use mine."
"Oh… Thank you…" So I didn't know him previously. This is our first meeting…John passes him the phone and Sherlock quickly makes his deductions, gleaning as much information about the stranger as possible.
Army doctor. Recently invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq. Looking for cheap accommodation. Psychosomatic limp. Therapist. Sister who's worried about him who's an alcoholic and walked out on her wife…
He smiles to himself as his younger self launches into similar deductions, and watches John Watson's amazed face amusedly. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you –" Sister! "But you won't go to him for help, possibly because he's an alcoholic. More likely because he's recently walked out on his wife…"
And then he's strutting out of the room, leaving one very baffled ex-army doctor to try and figure him out. Am I really that full of myself? He turns around – "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street…" – winks, and… No! No! I want to stay! I need to find out more! And… leaves.
The corridor swirls as he walks down it and he can feel himself departing. No! I can't go now! I need to see him again! I need to see John Watson!
-.-
He awakes with a start.